


Tribes

by literature_and_ocean_waves



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, did my best on the Temple ceremonies forgive me it has been a while since I was at a service, holocaust survivor!erik, if you have not already read elie Wiesel's Night please go do it, part of my au, this thing is sad as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 16:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literature_and_ocean_waves/pseuds/literature_and_ocean_waves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a collective gasp from the audience. </p>
<p>A string of black numbers gruesomely shines against alabaster skin, tattooed. </p>
<p>A brand, a mark. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribes

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: 
> 
> Elie Wiesel is a real person. He wrote the amazing book, "Night", about his experiences in a Nazi concentration camp. 
> 
> I do not know if he ever did a lecture series about his book in Jewish synagogues, but that is what is happening for the sake of the story. 
> 
> I hope that I wrote Mr. Wiesel as accurately as possible and do not mean anything negative by having him featured. 
> 
> He was just such a prominent figure for both the time period and the subject of this story that it seemed only right to feature him. 
> 
> X-Men has a long history of using real people in their stories, so I am just following in the tradition. 
> 
> Love your work, Mr. Wiesel! You are an amazing writer and I have more respect for you than I can ever show! 
> 
> Enjoy the story, folks.

Erik is not sure why he is here.   
He is not a local and everyone here knows it. This place is much too small to cater to the largeness of an ever-changing crowd.   
It had been a spur of the moment thing.   
A wild idea that he, rather uncharacteristically, had acted impulsively on.   
And now he is starting to regret it. 

It is not like they would turn him away, but still.   
He can feel eyes on him.   
Mostly children.   
The adults have taken notice of him, but chalked up his presence to a mere oddity.   
The children, on the other hand, are fascinated. It is not every day that they get a new face at temple. 

There are two, a boy and a girl. Very possibly twins. They are sitting a few rows to his right, whispering to each other.   
“Mama, Mama,” The boy says. “Who is that man there?”  
The boy is bouncing excitedly in his seat and his sister is nodding rapidly, agreeing with her brother’s question. Their mother gently shushes them.   
“I don’t know, children.” She says. “But don’t be rude. That nice man is probably here to listen to Mr. Wiesel.”  
Smart lady. She is right.

Erik perches on his spot on the bench, still as a stone.   
It has been, literally, decades since he was last in a synagogue.   
He barely remembers what goes on and what he does remember may not hold true for this place. Maybe services were different in Germany.   
Maybe he should leave…

The hall has gone quiet.   
The rabbi is walking up to the podium. He is an older gentleman, most likely in his mid-fifties.   
“Shalom, everybody.” He says. His voice is low and slightly gravelly, but gentle and very kind. A true New York accent is mixed in there, too, and somehow it is calming.   
Erik feels the tiniest bit less on edge.   
“We have a very special service tonight.” The rabbi says. “A world renowned Jewish author will be reading some passages from his book and giving a discussion.”  
This is not news to Erik.   
The article in this morning’s paper had basically said the same thing.   
What other reason did Erik have for being here?

The guest speaker does not come until after the Torah reading and the singing.   
Erik finds that he remembers more than he thought he did of both.   
His Hebrew is a little rusty, but the songs are much the same as they had been in Dusseldorf, all those long years ago.   
Like a deeply ingrained habit, he follows the words with the rest of the temple.   
Erik has relaxed a little more. 

When everything is all done and everyone is seated again, the rabbi calls for attention.   
“Please help me offer a warm welcome to our honored guest, Mr. Elie Wiesel.”  
Everyone claps, even Erik.   
A man walks up to the stage.   
He is young, nearly the same age as Erik himself.   
Erik blinks in surprise.   
That was… startling.   
He had expected an old man, maybe someone in the rabbi’s decade.   
Certainly not a slight, wire-haired creature of barely thirty-five. 

Mr. Wiesel stands in front of the podium, smoothing his sweater. He looks nervous.   
Erik absentmindedly thinks that Mr. Wiesel should go talk to Charles about stage fright; his bright and bubbly lover can cure anybody of a confidence problem. 

“Good evening.” Mr. Wiesel says. His voice is quiet and there is a mild accent. Romanian, Erik thinks.   
“I thank you all for the opportunity to be here tonight.” He says. “This will be the first synagogue I visit for this lecture series. So you are all my… practice team, I think is the American term.”  
There is a murmur of polite laughter from the audience. It floats up into the air and vibrates in the high ceiling’s wooden rafters. 

Mr. Wiesel seems less tense now.   
He pulls out a book from his pants’ pocket. It is rather small and blue. Not like the massive tomes that Charles has at home.   
Mr. Wiesel turns to a specific page and begins to read. 

Erik is staring, completely transfixed.  
He had not expected…

Mr. Wiesel reads another passage.

Erik’s heart is pounding like a drum.   
Like a train roaring furiously down a track.   
Like shiny, black boots marching rhythmically on a cobble-stone street. 

Mr. Wiesel reads another passage.

Erik feels vile.   
Nauseous and terrified and utterly helpless.   
Why did he ever come to this place?

Mr. Wiesel closes the book. 

The temple is silent.  
Eerily so.   
There’s a numbness that sort of sticks in the air.   
Like the anesthetic smells of hospitals.

Mr. Wiesel is not smiling, but he is not frowning either.   
“Would anyone like to open the floor for discussion?” He asks. 

Erik stands up.   
“I would.” He says. 

Mr. Wiesel nods. “Go ahead, friend.”

Erik does not say anything.   
Instead he exits his row and slowly walks up to the podium.   
Mr. Wiesel watches him, unfazed but curious.   
Then Erik rolls up the sleeve of shirt and holds out his left arm. 

There is a collective gasp from the audience.   
A string of black numbers gruesomely shines against alabaster skin, tattooed.   
A brand, a mark. 

Mr. Wiesel’s hands shake as he touches Erik’s arm.   
“Where?” He whispers.   
“Auschwitz.” Erik replies.   
“How old were you?”  
“Fourteen.”  
“Parents?”  
“1944.”  
Wiesel’s eyes are wet. “We could have seen each other there…” He says.   
Erik steels his nerves.   
He will NOT cry. It is too late for tears.   
Far, far too late. 

“Why did you write this book, Mr. Wiesel?” Erik asks.   
Mr. Wiesel looks confused.   
“To show the world.” He says.   
Erik looks unconvinced.   
“But why?” He says. “The world does not care. How can they?” He swallows hard at the lump in his throat. “They were not there… They do not know…”

There is a long, long pause. 

Erik hears footsteps and glances up.  
A woman is approaching him.   
She is old, obviously a grandmother.   
Her brown eyes are luminous, full of wisdom.

“But we know.” She says and pushes up her own sleeve.   
Those horrible numbers twist and hiss at Erik from her arm.   
“And if we know, then they will know.”

Suddenly, there are people all around Erik.   
Half a dozen, easily.   
Anywhere from twenty to eighty in age.   
All holding out their marks. 

Erik feels his defenses slipping.   
There is a prickly, burning sensation in his eyes.   
Like hot ash.   
Like furnaces.  
Like the so, so many dead. 

“We are many things, brother.” Elie says. “We come from many places, speak many languages. No two people in this world have ever been truly the same.”  
He wraps warm fingers around Erik’s numbers.   
Erik thinks of his mutants back in Westchester.   
“But for all our differences, there is a commonality, too. If not, none of us would be here together tonight.”

The grandmother steps closer to Erik and speaks.   
“We are Jews and we are survivors. What more could we need to be together?”

She hugs him then and she is so soft and warm and smells of flowery perfume that Erik can no longer hold back.   
He sobs, loud and bawling and childlike.   
Big, fat, ugly tears that are full of salt and water and blood and ink.   
He knows that he is making a scene and will probably ruin this poor lady’s pretty blue blouse, but he can’t help it.   
She does not seem to care anyway; she just hugs him closer, murmuring motherly things in Yiddish. 

There are many arms around Erik now.   
All tattooed.   
And there are arms around those arms.   
None tattooed.   
Everyone is crying and it is disgusting and horrible and freeing and wonderful. 

Erik remembers being poisoned once.   
It had been in Hungary, a barkeep who did not take too kindly to an angry teenager barging into his establishment, looking for Nazis.   
He had slipped a medium-level toxin into Erik’s beer and Erik, who had been young and still learning the rules of this game, had drunk it.   
Thankfully, Erik’s senses were strong enough to pick up on it and he had run into the restroom to induce vomiting.   
He had spent thirty minutes in there.   
Thirty tortuous minutes of pouring out literally everything in his body.   
The process had been awful, but it was better than death. 

This crying feels just the same.   
His body is rejecting a poison of another kind.   
Finally.   
After nearly twenty years. 

Just like before, the wet noisiness fades to a dry heaving and Erik cautiously looks over at Elie.   
He is smiling and compassion has never shown more clearly in a human being’s eyes.   
“We each belong to many types of tribes, brother.” He says. “I am a Jew and a survivor and a Romanian and a writer. The people in this room share at least one of those titles with me, perhaps more.”  
He squeezes Erik’s arm.   
“Do you have any children, my friend?” He asks.   
Erik is about to shake his head no, out of reflex, but then he remembers.   
Charles.   
And the two tiny beings inside him that may have prevented Erik from striking a match to ignite the flames of war.   
“I will.” He says. “In May.”   
“Good.” Elie says. “Children are the greatest blessing survivors can have. We lost our fathers. The best we can do is try to be good ones ourselves.”  
He helps Erik to his feet.   
“Show your children your tribes, brother. This one of Hebrews and survivors. And any more that make up who YOU are.”  
Erik wonders how a man who does not even know Erik’s name can understand him so well.   
“I will.” He says.   
He means it. 

 

The drive back to North Salem is not overly long, but every mile feels like a thousand.   
The November night is cold and clear. Stars are twinkling jovially in the dark blue sky.   
Erik pulls up at the mansion and wanders inside.   
He can hear the television going and the familiar giggling of Angel and Sean. They must have found some Friday night cartoons to watch.   
Erik walks past them and their antics and instead heads for the library.   
His little mutant family, his little tribe, is warm and safe and happy.   
He needs nothing more. 

Charles is sitting on his favorite couch. The big, plush, comfy one.   
He looks up when Erik enters the room.   
“Hello, Erik.” He says. His tone makes it sound like Erik’s arrival was unexpected, but Erik knows that Charles has been cerebrally watching him since he got out of the car. But Erik says nothing about it.   
“How was New York?” Charles asks, cheerily.   
Erik kneels in front of him. Charles blinks.   
“See for yourself.” Erik says and lowers his mental barriers. 

Erik has never been good with words.   
They are complicated.   
Excessive.   
And they clunk and jumble inside his mouth like too many unpleasant-tasting hard candies.   
They are not his strength. 

But Charles?  
Charles’s whole world is words. 

So Erik shows him.   
Shows him all that his useless words cannot about what he has experienced this night. 

When he has seen and heard and felt the entire story, Charles pulls his fingers from Erik’s forehead.   
He looks… gloriously proud.   
“You are going back then?” He asks. Erik nods.   
“Perhaps not every Friday night, but many. This is a piece of me that has been ignored for far too long.”

Erik sits on the couch and Charles climbs into his lap. Erik plays with his fluffy brown hair.   
“I still want to fight for our people, Charles.” He says. “My Hebrew Tribe is safe now. They do not need what I can offer, but mutants do. We are too few and far between.”  
Charles observes him with intelligent, bright blue eyes.   
“Is fighting the solution?” He asks. Erik sighs.   
“I do not know.” He answers, though it is hardly an answer at all. “I do think that we still need it. At least a little.” He stares at the wall. “Our brothers and sisters are out there. Some in terrible situations. They need us to rescue them.”  
He cups Charles’s chin. “But not all the time. A lot of the time… they will be here. Learning. Healing. They need us here… They need… me here.” His voice cracks just slightly. “So that is where I will be.”  
Charles just kisses him. 

The End.


End file.
